


Hope in the Air

by munzie (enjolrasenthusiast)



Series: The College Experience [4]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, prostitute!Annie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasenthusiast/pseuds/munzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s too much, too much for your hummingbird heart, and when you tug at black hair and red fabric you bite your lip to keep tears from spilling over your flushed cheeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> when will i develop a consistent writing style?
> 
> the world may never know
> 
> again, no beta, sorry
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> HEY HEY NEWS: im taking this fic, changing names and stuff and submitting it for a writing contest, wish me luck omg!

You’re smoking the first time you see her, blue eyes meeting brown through the thick white cloud in front of you. She is standing on the corner, wearing a thick pea coat and a red scarf to keep out the chill and waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green so she can get to the other side of the street. You are a few feet away, holding a cheap cigarette up to your lips and trying not to shiver when the wind passes through your thin dress and fishnet tights. You have never been ashamed of your trade, but something about the way she stares you down makes you wish you had brought a jacket, if only to hide your pale skin.

A man passes between the two of you, and you subconsciously crane your neck to keep her in your line of vision. She does the same, and you wonder why. This isn’t like you, you think briefly, but you shake the thought away as she steps forward. She approaches you with wary steps, as if you’ll bite off her pretty, upturned nose if she gets too close. You hope she doesn't try to force her pity on you, that gets old pretty fast these days. You chose this line of work, you weren't one to accept condolences for it.

She doesn't force her pity on you, much to your surprise. Instead, she rubs her hands up and down the sides of her arms, even though you’re sure she couldn't have been cold underneath that expensive-looking coat. Her fingers fiddle with the scarf, pulling it tighter and loosening it again. Her expression is passive and her voice is halting in the cold air as she speaks. “Got a light?”

Interesting. You hadn't pegged her as a smoker. Either way, you nod and produce your nicer Zippo lighter from your purse as she pulls a pack of clove - fucking _clove_ , you think to yourself - cigarettes from her pocket and pulls one out. She presses it between her lips with gloved fingers as she puts the pack away, and you hold the flame up and light it for her. It’s weirdly intimate, and you briefly remember that you sell sex and this shouldn't seem intimate, but it does regardless. You’re suddenly assaulted with a desire to keep her there with you, even though she hasn't shown any signs of leaving. You grind out your cigarette beneath one high heeled shoe and resist the urge to pull out another one.

“Annie,” You say, not reaching your hand out to shake hers but waving your fingers the smallest bit so you don’t seem completely devoid of courtesy. You’re not sure if she saw or not, but something in your stomach tells you she did, so you decide not to press it any further.

“Mikasa Ackerman,” she replies, and you catch the faintest hint of an accent when she says her last name. Her name is pretty, like the rest of her.

“Mikasa,” you drawl, and you decide that you like the way her name rolls off your tongue. She reaches into her pocket and offers you one of her fancy clove cigarettes. You accept with a polite thank you and light it quickly, sighing contentedly at the sweetness and spice that fills your lungs. You realize why people like these so much.

A honk startles you both, and you begin to walk towards the car - you’re sort of accustomed to responding to honks by now; after all, it’s what pays your bills - but Mikasa puts a hand on your arm. “That’s just my brother,” she says, stepping away. The front window rolls down to reveal an angry-looking boy (who doesn't, in fact, look anything like Mikasa, and you’re hard-pressed to believe they’re related by blood), probably not even twenty yet. You’re reminded again of how young you are, and your fake ID seems heavier in your purse despite you only being two years away from legal drinking age. Nineteen seems a hard burden to bear, not for the first time. You wonder how old Mikasa is.

She has one foot in the car when you run to the curb and call after her. “I come here Wednesdays,” you shout, before stepping back sheepishly. Your outburst earns you a few glances, just enough to make embarrassment redden your cheeks. She looks back at you, expression unreadable, and nods.

Then she is gone, and the tail lights of her brother’s Nissan are fading in the distance.

You leave with an older man who reeks of expensive alcohol, and return to your dingy shared apartment later that night, seventy-five dollars richer.

 

* * *

 

She comes again the next week, unlit cigarette placed neatly between her pursed red lips, and you pull out your lighter again and light it for her. Absently, you wonder if this will become a Thing between you two. You've never had a Thing with someone before. She hands you a smoke as well, and the two of you stand there in silence until your cigarettes have been burnt down to stubs. She grinds hers out with the heel of her - probably designer, if you’re honest with yourself - boot, and you do the same with your department store stiletto. She opens her mouth then, her accent more pronounced with every word she says. You still can’t place where her accent is from.

“Do you only come on Wednesdays, then?” Her syllables are clipped, and she leaves her words sounding unfinished. You like it.

“I've got a better job than this, most of the time,” you say, nodding. “But that just barely pays tuition. I need this one to pay the bills.” She nods, understanding.

“Where else do you work?”

“The university library,” you say, wondering why it matters to her. You’re probably reading too much into it, though. “I can usually get some studying done there if it’s a slow day.”

“Major?” She asks, and you think this is starting to feel like a game of 20 Questions. You can’t really ask for more from a girl you just met, though.

“Psych.”

“My brother’s majoring in Psych,” she says, and you remember the angry-looking kid from the week before. So he is in college. You rack your brains for any memory of the name Ackerman in any of your classes. Nothing. Still, she says he’s in college, so that counts for something. “Mine’s business.”

And apparently, so is she.

She pulls out another cigarette from her - new, you’re pretty sure - pack and brings it up to her lips. You light it for her, commenting dryly on the fact that she smokes almost as much as you. She just laughs it off, her quiet chuckle enough to make your throat go dry and your chest tighten up. Everything about her is so _pretty_ , and you wonder why she wants anything to do with a street corner prostitute like you.

Her brother pulls up then, and before she can leave you’re hastily pulling a pen out of your purse and pushing up the sleeve of her coat. She gives you an odd look, but lets you scrawl out your number on her arm along with ‘Annie’ (though you omit your last name in case things go tits up). She smiles at you and climbs into the car. Her brother gives you a funny look as he drives off, but you couldn't really care.

Your work tonight earns you over two hundred dollars, and you excitedly run home to Bertholdt and Reiner with a case of beer and cash in hand. The three of you drape yourselves over the couch and each other and pop in a movie that Bertholdt had rented, some B-grade action movie that was in the bargain section. About halfway through, your phone buzzes against your skin from its place in your bra.

 

**One new message.**

 

You open it excitedly.

 

**From: Unknown Number**

This is Annie, I’m assuming?

-Mikasa

 

You can’t help the happy little noise that escapes your mouth, and Reiner raises his head from its spot in Bertholdt’s lap to give you a questioning look. You dismiss him with a wave of your hand, willing your face to settle back into the bored expression you normally wear, and type out a response.

 

**To: Mikasa**

In the flesh. Didnt think you’d actually use my number.

Not that im complaining though.

 

She answers in seconds, and suddenly you've lost whatever attention was on the movie in the first place.

 

* * *

 

You meet her for coffee the next day, as per her request. The place she chose was fancy, and you were sure it was just as expensive as it seemed. You had brought some of the extra cash from your pay last night, you weren't about to make her cover you for this. Even if she was the one who invited you.

As she opens the door for you, you realize that this is her first time seeing you in anything other than your work clothes (you called them that, probably out of respect for yourself). You know that you clean up well, your makeup is lighter than it usually is and your hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, but you knew that your sweater and jeans look shabby next to her winter coat and boots. You pull off the harrowed college kid look nicely, but it’s nothing next to this girl who screams elegance with every fiber in her body. You feel a little awed.

She makes her way to the counter and ordered something with about seventeen different ingredients, sliding a twenty casually over the counter to the cashier. She only gets a dollar in return. You don’t know why you didn't expect it, after all the girl wore designer coats and smoked clove cigarettes. She must just be one of those rich, pretentious bitches that tormented you throughout high school. You wonder again why she invited you out for coffee. She takes her ridiculously expensive concoction from the counter and retreats to a booth in the back of the cafe, and you follow her a few minutes later with your four dollar latte.

You reflect on how weirdly easy this all seems, sitting across the table from a girl - a very pretty girl to boot, but you’d never tell her that unless you were sure you had at least a bit of a chance - you’d only met on two other occasions. Both of which happened to include you standing on a street corner trying to get laid for money.

You mentally shrug. You chose this job after all, don’t start regretting it now.

She starts up an easy conversation about school, and you learn that she’s a junior and recently turned twenty-one. You wish her a half-hearted belated birthday, and feel the presence of your fake ID burn through the side of your purse. You don’t mention it. Mikasa doesn't seem like she’d condone underage drinking, anyway, and you don’t want to try your luck.

She mentions her brother, and that gives you an opportunity to have a few questions about him answered. You jump at the chance, leaning forward ever so slightly and asking her, “What was his name again? I don’t think you said.”

“Eren Jaeger.” The name sounds familiar, you figure he must have a class or two with you. Still, you’re a bit confused.

“Not Ackerman?”

“Stepbrother,” she answers simply. “More or less.”

“More or less,” you repeat lamely.

“I was adopted,” she continues without missing a beat. You wonder how many times she’s had to do this. It does clear up a lot of confusion, though, especially the question of why Mikasa looks like a walking china doll while her brother is very clearly Turkish. Or at least partly, anyway. Bertholdt’s half Turkish, you know what it looks like and Eren fits the bill. Mikasa looks more oriental. A lot more oriental.

You sip your coffee and nod, trying to stare her down with your icy blue eyes. It usually works on most people, but something about her almost apathetic gaze makes you look away. It’s unsettling, to say the least. It almost feels like she’s studying you, trying to find something that you’re hiding from her. _Good luck with that_ , you think, focusing on keeping your expression as bored as possible. To anyone walking by, it would probably seem like the two of you are fighting. You don’t really care as you stare at her mouth, still unwilling to meet her eyes.

Later you think that might not have been a good idea, as sweat beads across your forehead at the memory of those pink lips wrapping around the lip of her coffee cup. You dig your palms into your closed eyes and down two of the sleeping pills you keep next to your bed, chased by three long gulps of water. Bertholdt and Reiner sleep soundly on, curled up together on the other bed in the single bedroom. You don’t want to wake them up, they work hard enough as it is.

You fall asleep to the thought of clove cigarettes.

* * *

 

You don’t expect her to show up that Wednesday, seeing as she has other ways of contacting you now, but she’s there all the same. Her and that stupid cigarette between her stupid soft lips. You pull out your lighter and light it for her. You could definitely see this becoming a Thing between you two, and you smile inwardly at that thought.

“So, are you only a prostitute on Wednesdays?” You flinch a little at the casual use of the word, and wonder why you’re doubting your decisions so much now.

“I mean, there are a couple regulars who have my number, but for the most part it’s just Wednesday.” _Thankfully_ , you almost add. You had decided to go into this because you liked sex and you liked money, and it made sense to put the two together. You didn't factor in how much it would wear you out. There were days you only barely made it to class, only to fall asleep halfway through the lecture. You were almost never sore, though. You figured anyone that needed to take home a prostitute didn't have the best sex life, and that theory was confirmed every time you went home with someone. But of course, you leave all that unspoken.

Mikasa does that weird thing with her eyes where she strips you of all your defenses and just _stares_ , like she’s reading a goddamn book or something. There’s a flurry of movement, and then her pack of clove cigarettes is in your hand, minus the one currently between her lips. It’s heavy, and you briefly wonder if it’s actually heavier than normal packs or if it’s just some dumb trick your mind feels like playing. You glance at her blank face and she nods, so you shove the cigarettes into your purse without a word. She looks like she’s about to say something, but then her brother pulls up and she just waves goodbye. Your heart does a funny little _thump-thump-pang_ thing inside your chest as Eren drives off with Mikasa in tow.

You light up one of Mikasa’s cigarettes and take a long drag, blowing the smoke out in little rings. A girl comes up to you, asking you something about prices. Her hair is not dark enough and her skin doesn't look like porcelain, but you suppose she’s pretty in her own way, so you pay attention.

“You get what you pay for, honey. What you feel like paying isn't really up to me. We can always negotiate later.” She nods, walking away and gesturing for you to follow. You shrug and obey, it’s been a long time since you had a broad in bed and when she opens her purse for her keys, you catch a glimpse of hundred dollar bills.

She later comments that your mouth tastes like cloves, and you wonder if Mikasa’s does, too.

 

* * *

 

“What’s your last name?” She asks, as the two of you sit on one of the university benches. Smoke drifts from her mouth as she speaks, and you can’t help but think of how fucking _pretty_ she is and how much you’d like your tongue to be between those lips instead of that fucking clove cigarette and you have to pull the metaphorical brakes on your train of thought because that is _dangerous, do not enter, big red signs territory_. Instead, you swallow down the lump in your throat and reply.

“Leonhardt,” You say smoothly, inwardly applauding yourself for managing to sound so normal despite the growing obstruction in the back of your mouth. She nods in reply, bringing the cigarette back to her lips and taking another drag. You realize that this is the first time you've told her her your last name, and you can’t help but mentally kick yourself for not telling her sooner.

“Annie Leonhardt,” she says, and you love the way her accent twists your name. You could drown in her voice, as sweet as syrup, and you wish she would talk more often. “Come home with me.”

You almost miss the last part, it was said so quietly, but you nearly choke nonetheless. You stare at her, waiting for her to explain further. She simply repeats her earlier statement.

“Come home with me.”

You don’t refuse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annie needs to spend a little less time wondering why Mikasa wants her around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry this took so long to get out!!! ;-; I'm so lazy when it comes to updating fics its terrible im terrible but i hope this chapter makes up for it!

Her apartment smells like she does, cloves and perfume and a sweetness you couldn’t place that’s so uniquely _her_ that your head spins. She locks the door behind you, and you don’t have time to reflect on how uncomfortable that should make you, doesn’t make you, before she is hanging up her coat in the closet and offering you a drink.

“I don’t have any beer, just wine,” she says apologetically, and you rethink your earlier assumption that she would be against you drinking. You accept a glass of wine and retreat to her pristine cream couch to sip it. You sit up straight, holding the glass delicately and trying your very best not to look like the poor, harrowed student you are. Being here, in Mikasa’s home and company, makes you want to act the part, and you almost forget that you’re wearing a ratty university pullover to match her rich-looking sweater.

She’s sitting across from you, in a plush chair that matches the sofa and the carpet, and you don’t realize that the two of you are staring at each other until she clears her throat and looks back down into her wineglass. You shake your head, the illusion of you actually fitting in with this house, with this woman, disappearing. You shove away the thoughts of _why does she want anything to do with me_ and _if I leaned forward I could touch her_ and take another sip of your drink, the rich taste sitting heavy on your tongue and making you doubt you’ll ever go back to liquor store canned beer. You wonder why she invited you over.

You almost open your mouth to ask her, but she cuts you off before you can start. “I have movies, if you want to watch something. Or we could settle for TV, or board games. I don’t know if you like board games but I know Eren has a lot and he wouldn’t be opposed to us borrowing one or two, I think.” She’s talking a lot more than she normally does, and it takes you a few minutes to realize that it’s because of nerves. What she could possibly be nervous about is beyond you, but you decide not to ask, instead giving her another topic for conversation.

“A movie sounds great,” you say, not realizing that her living room has no television. You wonder if that was the wrong choice when she stiffens for a short moment. The moment passes, though, and before you can question it she is setting her glass down and standing up smoothly. It strikes you again, just how pretty she is, and you swallow down another sip of wine to clear your throat.

“You can pick one,” she says, gesturing for you to follow her. You get up but shake your head, picking up her forgotten wineglass and following her into the hallway at the other end of the room.

“Surprise me.”

She smiles at that, and you hand her glass back. The two of you disappear into one of the rooms, and she closes the door behind you. You realize that this is the second time she’s closed you into a room, and you don’t really want to ask yourself why you’re so comfortable with that. You know that you would never have let it happen if it had been anyone but her, you always made sure that it was you that shut the door, and on your own terms.

She flicks on the light and you realize you’re in her den, with a large couch on the left side of the room and a large flatscreen hanging on the right wall next to a large bookshelf stocked bottom to top with DVD cases. A coffee table sits in the middle, and you put your drink down and sit down on the soft seat. Mikasa busies herself over by the tv, pulling a movie from one of the shelves and starting it up. She lets the previews run and leaves the room, coming back after a couple minutes with her arms full of throw pillows and two soft-looking blankets. She sets them down beside you as the menu for a movie you’ve never heard of loops, sitting down on the other side. She feels impossibly close, even with the layers of fabric and stuffing between the two of you, and you steal a sideways glance at her pretty porcelain features.

“Subtitles?” she asks, flicking through menus to buy time. You shake your head, and she starts the movie. As the opening scene unfolds, the two of you pull pillows and blankets over yourselves and get comfortable. You grab your glass, suddenly feeling naked without the barrier between you and Mikasa. She shifts and her foot hits yours, and both of you draw back as if you had been burned. Your skin tingles where it touches hers, even through two blankets.

You just curl into yourself and try to focus on the movie.

 

* * *

 

She is warm, warmer than anyone you’ve ever met, but maybe that was just your imagination. She burns you where she is curled into your side, fingers wrapped tightly around the red scarf that she never removes and breath steady and deep. She sleeps soundly, but you cannot. Not with her so close, pressed against you and curled around you and sitting deep in your chest like a stone that weighs down your heart. You card your fingers through her hair, carefully so you don’t wake her, and stare at the swell and part of her lips. She’s so beautiful, so _divine_ , and you think that this must be a dream because there’s no way you could fit yourself into this picture, no way that you could really be here.

You look at the TV, even though it has been black for hours, and worry your bottom lip with your teeth. You don’t feel her shifting until her eyes are open and on you, and her voice is thick with sleep as she speaks.

“You think too loud, Annie.”

Her accent is more pronounced when overlaid with fatigue, and you murmur an apology and pull your hand back from its resting place on her head. She grumbles at that, expression shifting into a pout, so you return to playing with her hair. She rubs her head softly against your chest, hand moving from her scarf to grip at your jacket with soft porcelain fingers, and closes her eyes once more. You don’t wake her up to ask why she is sleeping on you, or if she wants you to stay.

You are gone when she wakes up in the morning, anyway.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t show up the next day, or the day after, but that Wednesday her brother stops you as you leave your shared class. His hand sits heavy on your shoulder and you don’t think you could have left even if you wanted to. Instead you turn, looking up the five inches or so to his face, and school your expression into the bored mask you wear so often. He spares no words.

“She’s gay.”

You blink once, slowly, waiting for him to explain because there was no way you could let your heart jump around your chest like this. He blinks back, green eyes staring hard into brown, before he nods and pushes his way past you and out of the classroom. You stare after him, at the green bag slung across his shoulder, and suddenly curiosity and your feet are carrying you through the crowd of students. You whirl him around, one hand around his arm so that he can’t escape, and stare accusingly at him.

“What the hell was that?”

“Was what?”

“You know what.” You school your face back into an impassive mask, trying to avoid any more outbursts. “You can’t just say something like that and then walk away.”

“I thought it was pretty self-explanatory,” he says, shrugging. “My sister’s gay.”

Your heart thumps against your ribs so hard you are sure there will be a bruise the next day.

“So why are you telling me?”

Eren laughs, a guttural condescending sound that has made him more irritating than you thought he could ever be. He looks down at you and shrugs his arm out of your grasp - an easy task, seeing as you are still too out of it to hold on to him very tightly - and smiles. “She says you’re smart. Figure it out.”

With that, he is turning and walking away again.

 

* * *

 

She knows how you take your coffee, and you try not to question why she knows you as well as, if not better than the two men you live with. She has a mug waiting for you when you knock on the door of her apartment, face tucked deep into your scarf to keep out the chill of early spring. You take off your shoes as you walk in and accept the drink with a smile, watching the way her face brightens at the gesture. You would say she has never been prettier, but you’re sure she is prettier each second than she was the last, so that wouldn’t really be news to you.

You sit in her soft armchair, crossing your legs and bringing the steaming mug up to your face for a sip. She doesn’t move a muscle but her eyes follow you, tracking your movements and committing them to memory. She is leaning up against the counter dividing the kitchen and the living room, elbows resting heavily against the tile and ankles crossed. Her legs are long enough that the counter sits just above her hips, so she leans back just the slightest bit in order for her elbows to touch it. She is silent, studying you just as you study her. Her gaze flickers from your eyes to your hands, your legs, your neck and back up to your eyes, and then she is uncrossing her ankles and walking over to you with that ease you envy so much. Every step she takes sets your heart hammering at an alarming rate, and you’re sure that if you don’t hold tight to something (even if it’s just your coffee cup), you’ll float away. She reaches your chair and leans down as if to tell you something, but stops just before her lips brush the skin of your ear. She is so close you can feel it, the air between you crackling with electricity. You wonder if this is what Reiner meant when he told you he could feel Bertholdt’s closeness. You don’t mind it much.

Before you can dwell on it, though, Mikasa is shaking her head and pulling away, leaving you with a strange sort of cavity in your chest that your heart just keeps beating at the sides of. She doesn’t walk away, though, just stands there next to your chair with that damn unreadable expression of hers. You set your coffee down on the table and rise to meet her, staring her down even despite the seven inches she has on you. Your lips part in an unspoken question - _what do you really want from me?_ \- and even though the silence is thick and stifling she seems to understand. She nods her head, once, and before you have time to wonder what that nod means she is pulling you by the neckline of your jacket, up and up through thin air to meet her waiting lips.

_“She’s gay.”_

_So this is what he meant._

You kiss her back with the weight of all of your feelings for her, pouring every single thought you ever had of her back into her empty hands. She tastes like cloves and honey and the faintest hint of smoke, and your chest feels lighter than it has since the day you met her. There’s so much _feeling_ , infinitely more than you’re used to, and it threatens to overwhelm you. It’s too much, too much for your hummingbird heart, and when you tug at black hair and red fabric you bite your lip to keep tears from spilling over your flushed cheeks.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of it!!!!! thank you to everyone who stuck around until now, your comments are what keep me alive tbh,,,,
> 
> next up for me is finishing up my other fics, namely [On Wings of Blue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1787590) and [Tidal Waves](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2065053)!! give them a read if you want ovo
> 
> anyway, enjoy the last chapter of this, I really enjoyed writing it!
> 
> ~~this is completely unedited punch me in the face~~

Her skin is porcelain, soft and fragile and velvet underneath your shaking fingertips. You draw your hands up over her cheeks, drawing them down to her neck and playing idly with the fabric of her collar. You don’t look at her face, you have a feeling that if you did then whatever spell was over the two of you would be broken. Instead, you stare at the hollow of her throat, where the soft creamy skin dips down just enough to leave a shadow. You find it gorgeous, just like every other part of her, and lean down to press a gentle kiss against it.

She has a birthmark just underneath her left breast, a patch of skin about two inches in diameter that shows up just a shade lighter than the rest of her skin. You trace it with your fingers, heart swelling the slightest bit at the goosebumps that rise on her skin in your wake. She walks her fingers up your arm, cooing sweet words so softly you aren’t sure you really hear them at all. Her eyes close and you are kissing her again, softly and sweetly and her hands are tugging at your hair with a force just this side of too rough and if you hadn’t sworn off love years ago the word might just have escaped your lips.

When you lift her legs to rest on your shoulders she twines them behind your head, pulling you into her with her ever-present cool determination. Her back arches and praises spill from her ruby lips as you press the flat of your tongue against her soft, sensitive folds, and you close your eyes because you can’t bear to look at her beautiful, beautiful face. She babbles, just like when she’s nervous, telling you how good you are and how pretty you are and how much you mean to her, and it takes all your willpower to convince yourself she’s lying. You don’t really know what you’d do if she was telling the truth.

She comes with a scream, throwing her head back into the wood of her headboard and bringing both arms up to cover her face. You let your fingers sink into the flesh of her hips, pressing fingertips into skin hard enough to leave bruises in the morning. You force yourself not to care, tell yourself that you can be selfish just this once and deal with your regret later. You will away the lump in your throat when she caresses your cheek, pulling you up to kiss you full on the mouth before rolling over to straddle you. Her fingers lace between yours, and she smiles down at you.

You fall asleep curled into her like she is the only thing shielding you from the outside world, from college and your little rundown apartment and the growing holes in your work dress. She hums a lullaby into your hair, and you close your eyes and pretend that this is your life. You pretend that tomorrow isn’t Wednesday, that less than twenty-four hours from now you will probably be in another bed with a stranger and a wad of cash.

 

* * *

 

It is cold when you wake up, and it takes you a second to realize that the window is open. You rush to close it, wondering if Reiner or Bertholdt had opened it during the night - you never leave it open - before remembering that you were at Mikasa’s. You look around for her, but the bedroom is empty. Donning your discarded clothes, you step out into the hallway.

The smell of sausages assaults your nose as you pad down the corridor and you peer around the corner to see Eren standing at the stove, spatula in hand. He looks up as you walk in, seemingly unfazed by your presence, and points to a plate of food on the counter. “Mikasa left you breakfast,” he says, in a voice more cheerful than you had ever heard him. As you sit down, he turns off the stove and begins to eat his sausage straight out of the pan. A note catches your eye, a bit of white paper sticking out from underneath the plate, and you squint to read it.

_Had to leave for work, sorry. Thank you for last night. I hope this covers it. -Mikasa_

You move the plate and pull the note out from beneath it, and something else flutters to the ground. You bend down to pick up the $100 bill, and icy fingers clench around your heart. _Hope this covers it._ You feel like vomiting. How could you be so _stupid_?

You finish your meal in minutes and rush out the door, ignoring Eren’s worried questions.

 

* * *

 

Your apartment reeks of pot when you open the door, and Reiner and Bertholdt are sprawled out, half-naked, on the couch. Reiner lifts his hand in a lazy hello but you ignore it, instead stalking over to the armchair and grabbing the pipe and lighter. The smoke burns your lungs when it hits your throat, and you cough for the first few hits before your body remembers how to smoke. You don’t put the pipe down until your head is sufficiently hazy, at which point you grab a beer from the six-pack you bought with Mikasa’s money and down a quarter of it.

You hear Bertholdt ask you what the matter is, but you wave him away and take another swig of your drink. The cheap corner market beer washes away the taste of Mikasa, and when Reiner and Bertholdt shed the last of their clothes they happily accept your drunken kisses. It has been so long since the three of you have done this, but you are running on autopilot, focusing only on rinsing that name out of your skin. You remember that you like sex, you love sex, and concentrate on that thought instead.

You are too drunk to realize that the name on your lips is hers, even with two cocks in you and the high still going strong.

 

* * *

 

The dress you wear that night is brand new, a stunning blue piece that you bought with the money that Mikasa gave you. Paired with new stockings and knee high boots, it manages to keep the chill out quite a bit more than your old dress. You look good and you know you do, so it doesn’t surprise you one bit when a man with salt and pepper hair approaches you.

“$150 for one night,” you say, because you need the extra cash and he looks like the kind of guy that would pay up. He looks you over and nods before taking out his wallet. You shake your head, gesturing for him to put it away. “Not here.”

He leads you to his car, parked a few yards down the street, and opens the door for you. What a gentleman. As you close the door you catch a glimpse of red fabric and your breath catches in your throat. _She wouldn’t look for me here_ , you think. _She’s gotten what she wants from me._

You do your job and collect your pay with your mouth shut, afraid that if you let any noise escape your lips it will do so in the form of her name. When the man asks you to stay the night, you just shake your head and begin the walk to the bus stop.

 

* * *

 

When she confronts you a week later, it is through her brother. He stops you as you leave your shared class, and you bite your tongue to keep the thoughts of _she can’t even face me herself from spilling out_. He backs you into the corner between the table and the wall, so you can’t really escape even if you wanted to. You blinked once, slowly, bracing yourself for rejection from someone you never really had a thing with in the first place.

“What did you say to her?”

That was unexpected.

“What did I…?” you stammer, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “I haven’t said anything to her in a week.”

“So why has she been moping ever since you left with your panties in a twist?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m the one who misunderstood this whole relationship in the first place.” The word _relationship_ leaves a bitter, heavy taste on your tongue, because you know that what you had with Mikasa was nowhere near a relationship. Relationships meant coffee and movie nights and holding hands, not one night stands that ended with payments. _Why did she think I was doing this for money_? Eren clears his throat, reminding you that he is still there and you aren’t exactly alone with your thoughts. Behind him, the lecture hall slowly empties.

“You need to talk to her,” he says finally, stepping back to give you a bit of breathing room. You do the same, looking down at your feet and weighing your options. You could talk to her - and either clear up the whole misunderstanding or lose the girl that meant the most to you - or you could return to your apartment and spend your days drinking and fucking people you don’t know.

You nod, because any chance to fix things with Mikasa is better than no chance at all.

 

* * *

 

She looks harrowed when she opens the door, and you half expect her to close it again. Her hair is swept up into a messy bun that looks like it hasn’t been fixed in days, and she is wearing a paint-splattered jacket over her favorite t-shirt. Her gaze is hard and cold as she stares at you, and for a moment it seems like she is going to scream, or hit you, or maybe both. But then she is falling forward, through the open doorway and onto your shoulder, clutching you so tightly you think you might break. “I thought you were gone,” she sobs out into the fabric of your sweater, and you wrap your arms around her shaking shoulders because this is scaring you, Mikasa is supposed to be calm and composed and unreadable, not breaking down in front of you over a week of no communication. “I never should have-”

“Shhhhhhh, it’s alright,” you whisper, rubbing circles into her back and calming her even though it isn’t _really_ alright. You stay there like that for about ten minutes, long enough for Mikasa to get her breathing under control and wipe the tears from her puffy red eyes. She looks down at you, nose red and cheeks tearstained and eyes swollen, and she is still beautiful. You curse yourself, because you know you will always find her beautiful, even if her slim fingers were wrapped around your neck.

“No, no it isn’t, I shouldn’t have left that note, you completely misunderstood, I never wanted you to leave, I-”

You cut her off with a kiss, pulling her face down to yours because you don’t really know what else to do in this situation. She pulls you close, and you feel her shaking, threatening to cry again. “Don’t do this,” she mumbles into your lips. “You don’t have to do this anymore.”

You pull back and wrap your arms around her again. “Do what?” you ask, even though you already know what she means. You want to hear her say it.

“This,” she mumbles into your hair, “Selling yourself. You don’t have to.”

“You know I can’t-”

“I know, I know. Come stay here, then. I can hold this place up by myself, I make plenty.” She is selfish, so selfish, but you suppose you are too.

“Bertholdt and Reiner-”

“Will manage fine without you,” she finishes. “Annie, please, Annie,” she says, and her voice shakes. “You can take Eren’s room if you want your own, he’s moving out next week into his own place and it can just be us, please Annie-”

You kiss her again, because if she keeps on like this she’ll start crying. You are selfish, you know you’re selfish, and that thought sticks in the back of your mind when you reply.

“Let me talk to Reiner and Bertholdt.”

 

* * *

 

“Bert got a promotion,” Reiner calls out when you walk in the door, and Bertholdt gives you a grin and a thumbs-up from his seat on the couch.

“I’m the manager now!” he says, still smiling, and Reiner points to him in an _I told you so_ sort of gesture. You smile back, hoping that they can’t tell how nervous you really are.

“I brought beer,” you say, because you’re nowhere near ready enough to ask if they can afford the apartment on their own. They cheer and each grab a can from the case you hold out, falling over each other a little bit as they sit back down.

“I’m making fifty thousand now,” Bertholdt blurts, and you cough a little bit because that’s a higher salary than you’ve ever had, even though that isn’t really saying much. You remember why you came home so early, though, and look down at the drink in your hand. “What’s the matter, Annie?”

_This is for Mikasa_ , you think. _This is for me. They can handle this on their own_. Gathering up what little courage you can, you look Bertholdt in the eyes.

“I’m moving out.”

 

* * *

 

“Is this the last one?” Mikasa asks as you set your load down on her bed.

“This is it,” you reply, opening the box full of your clothes. The two of you set to work hanging them up in Mikasa’s closet, side by side. You don’t think you’ve ever been happier, and your heart swells in your chest when she leans over and kisses you on the cheek.

Your hand brushes cloth, and you pull out the dress that Mikasa first saw you in. It is worn through, full of holes and shoddily sewn up in some places. You both look at it, remembering the first night you met, and the scent of clove cigarettes fills your nose.

Mikasa kisses you one more time, full on the lips, and you fold the dress and put it back into the box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end!!! i hope you liked it!
> 
> another thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos, it really means a lot to me when i know someone likes my work!


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